


To say it and mean it too

by sophiahelix



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017 Memorial Cup, M/M, Memorial Cup, break up make up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 13:31:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11314401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiahelix/pseuds/sophiahelix
Summary: He can do this. He can be a hockey player and ignore Connor McDavid for the rest of their lives.





	To say it and mean it too

**Author's Note:**

> This started life over a month ago as a chatfic I was telling myself during the Mem Cup; it rapidly got away from me. Thank you to everyone on Twitter who encouraged me to keep telling it.
> 
> Between then and now, a lot of editing, formatting, and rewriting has taken place to make it into a real story. Thank you to addandsubtract and shdwsilk for the beta and excellent suggestions.
> 
> I almost titled this "Captain of My Feelings (the only thing I wanna believe)" but that seemed extra even for Dylan Strome.

Connor’s on TV the night the Memorial Cup starts, with good hair and a fancy watch, and Dylan can hardly even recognize him anymore.

That's a lie. Dylan would know Connor’s face anywhere; the shy humor behind the careful blankness, the hesitation when he's thinking. But he looks so smooth and grown-up, captain of the fucking Oilers, and it's going to be so awkward when they meet, now that they've been broken up for almost a year.

The team is finishing dinner in the hotel restaurant when Connor finally shows, after the Seattle game on Saturday. The guys who played with him in Erie stand right up to say hello, but Dylan hangs back with Brinksy, figuring it’ll be easier with someone else next to him. Connor makes his way through the guys, shaking hands and looking sharp in his TV suit and hair, and finally meets Dylan’s eye.

"Hey man,” they both say, Brinksy too. Dylan’s known Connor how many years, and now they're reduced to this? Brinsky goes right in for the hug, and Dylan knows he's making it weird, but he just holds out his hand for Connor to slap and doesn't let him pull him in. He catches the little surprised flare of hurt in Connor's blue eyes, but he just spreads a fake, fast grin and turns away.

He still hasn't forgiven Connor for making him be the one to do it. For not calling, for drifting away, until Dylan had to save his pride somehow. It wasn't fair, and it was worse when Connor acted surprised and hurt, like he wasn't the one who made it happen. Like he wasn't the one who left first.

Dylan takes his seat, and after a few minutes of chatter the other guys do too, Connor sitting on the far side in the seat Brinksy saved. Dylan keeps his head down, focusing on what's left of his food. He tries not hear what they're talking about, but he can still feel Connor across the table, like a hot, dangerous fire he keeps himself turned away from. 

He can do this. He can be a hockey player and ignore Connor McDavid for the rest of their lives.

Except Connor apparently isn't going to let that happen. Dylan skips out early, and Brinksy looks up at him as he goes, sympathy in his eyes but not saying anything. When Dylan gets to the hall he realizes he's got a text from an hour ago, Connor saying _u wanna meet up later?_

Dylan cracks at a bitter smile at that, because fuck no, and goes to the elevator. By the time he’s in his room Connor’s sent _gonna b up for a while? let’s talk_ , which again, fuck to the _no_. Dylan goes into the bathroom.

Two more texts come from Connor, which he ignores, until finally he just turns the phone off. He's lying in bed watching TV, thinking hard about nothing at all, when there's a knock from the hall. Dylan sighs, staring at the ceiling and considering.

It might be one of the guys, freaking out about tomorrow, or his mom, freaking out he's not answering his phone. On the off chance it's either situation he hauls himself up and goes to the door, crossing his fingers.

No such luck.

“Hey man," Dylan says, jocular and cool, he hopes. "What's up?"

"Can I come in?" Connor asks, straight-faced and serious. He's changed out of his fancy suit into track pants and a t-shirt, but his hair is still perfect. He looks just as much of a stranger as he did before, and still exactly the same as Dylan remembers.

His last text said _can we get a drink or something_. Dylan didn't want to be in public with him, but he wants to be alone with him less. He really thinks about just saying _no_ , without some fake excuse about an early bedtime. _No, you can't come in. No, I don't even know who you are anymore._

"If you want," is what Dylan says instead, because what Connor wants is what it's always been about.

So Connor comes in. Dylan wants to look at the ground, anywhere but him, but Connor is looking straight ahead so Dylan meets his gaze. He hasn't really _looked_ at Connor in months. Since last summer he's avoided him on TV, or when he comes across a picture of Connor online. Too many memories, too many feelings he still can't think about.

It was so, so bad last summer, when Connor was drifting away and Dylan was trying to believe it was because he was just had too much going on. Dylan didn't want to press. He told himself he already knew the answer, that Connor was busy and things were changing for both of them. 

But the truth was this: he didn't want to make Connor choose, because he might not choose Dylan.

And then — he got cut, seven games after finally coming up in the league, and Connor didn't call. Didn't even text until a day later, and then it was a shitty text, short and bland. He knows Connor isn't good with words, but _jesus_. 

Connor did call two days after that, on a Sunday morning when Dylan was packing to leave his billet for a roadie, and Dylan had had it.

"I'm sorry," Connor said, first thing.

“Yeah, well," Dylan said, folding a shirt, phone tucked under his ear.

“Where are you?" 

Dylan laughed, bitter. "Where do you think?" 

“Oh. Well, say hi to them for me."

And Dylan saw red, putting the shirt into his suitcase. He squeezed the fabric tight, taking in a deep, sharp breath. "Connor?" 

“Yeah?" 

“Don't call me again."

He heard the weird, hurt noise Connor made, breathy over the phone. “What?" Connor asked, and it was the most emotion Dylan had heard in months from him. Like Connor was suddenly waking up, thinking of Dylan as a real person, with his own fucking life and problems.

"You know what," Dylan said, that good clean rage still in his head. "This is bullshit. It's been bullshit for a long time. You — ” He clenched his jaw, biting down the words. He wanted to tear Connor apart, but even this angry, he couldn't do it.

"Is this because — ” Connor started, hesitant. 

Dylan knew what he was going to say, and he hated it. But fine, let him think it was jealousy, that it was because he'd stuck in the NHL and Dylan hadn't. It hurt too much to talk about.

"Whatever," Dylan snapped. "It doesn't matter, it's over. Tell yourself whatever you want."

There was a silence, stretching out until it ached, and then he heard Connor sigh. Dylan hung up before he could say anything else. And that was the last time they talked before tonight, seven months later, and now Connor is standing awkwardly in Dylan's hotel room.

This isn't fucking fair. It's Dylan's moment, his team, his cup. One fucking thing he can have without Connor McDavid there. He's tried not to think about it much, but if they win without Connor when they couldn't with him, it's going to mean so much more. And here's Connor again, doing TV and press and like, gracing them with his fucking presence. Dylan clenches his jaw, thinking about it.

But god, Connor's eyes are so soft as he sits on the end of the bed and looks up, and Dylan can't feel so much all at once. He finally looks away, leaning on the dresser across from the bed and folding his arms. There's a narrow space between their knees, not much but enough.

"How's it going?" Connor asks.

Dylan chuffs, shaking his head. 

“Yeah," Connor says, quietly. "Um. Listen, I just don't want things to be weird."

Dylan shakes his head again. Things aren't weird. They aren't anything. "I'm fine. It's cool."

"Uh, I don't mean — I'm glad you're fine. I just don't want, like — I don't want anyone asking questions. Or stupid pictures online."

Dylan turns his head back, slowly. Connor has the same earnest, anxious look as he always does — around other people, not Dylan. “You're seriously asking me to be cool so you don't have to talk about me to the media?"

Connor flushes. "I mean, it's not like everyone knows or anything. About us. They just — we were always buddies, and they expect..."

Dylan's heart is pounding so fast in his throat it's choking him. He keeps his arms crossed, fingers biting into his own biceps. “I'm not gonna pretend like I'm still your best friend," he finally snaps, face hot. Connor flinches. "We're cool. No one cares."

Connor flushes more. "Uh," he says, and swallows. "They…do? Everywhere I go, people — ”

"Oh, fuck off," Dylan says. "Yeah, you're a big shot now, thanks for reminding me.”

"You're the one who cared about that.”

Dylan glares at him, face still hot. He forgot that's what Connor thinks about him. "Don't pretend you don't care. Why else are you here?"

"Look, I just spent a week taking heat over that fan picture at the airport. The hugging one, you know?"

"I don't know," Dylan says, because he doesn't. "I don't fucking follow your media, I'm not obsessed with you like everyone else."

Connor sighs. "I just don't want it to be some big deal. It's supposed to be your Mem Cup, right? You don't want the distraction either.”

Dylan looks up at the ceiling, scrunching up his face. Trust Connor to make it sound like he's doing Dylan a favor. “What do you want me to do? Put a bunch of pictures on Insta of us hugging? Wear your number on my sleeve?"

"Come on," Connor says, and he finally sounds annoyed. "Just be normal. We just don't want to get asked about each other."

"That's gonna happen either way," Dylan points out, trying to ignore how his chest clenched at that _we_.

"Dyls," Connor says. "Come on."

Dylan looks down again. It would be petty to say "don't call me that." It would be petty to keep refusing. Connor's always so reasonable, and Dylan hates that there's never any good answer except doing what he wants. "Fine," he says. "I'll be normal. Whatever."

Connor stands up, sighing. "Thank you." 

He puts out his hand to shake, and Dylan does. It's like this afternoon, except then he puts his arms around Connor and hugs him tight, like he used to. Connor smells fancy, older, and he's taller and broader too, and Dylan's heart is killing him. He turns his face against Connor's neck as Connor brings his arms up around Dylan, lightly, hesitant.

Dylan squeezes him tighter for a moment. "See?" he whispers into Connor's neck. "Normal."

He feels the shuddery breath Connor takes in at that, going rigid all over, and then he pulls away and takes a step back. Connor's still flushed from before, and now he's bright-eyed, breathing hard, frowning. Dylan puts a big, fake smile on his face.

"Great to catch up again, Davo," he says, fake as his smile, letting Connor know it. "See you tomorrow?" 

Something crosses Connor's face, so quick he can't register what it is, and it feels like the air between them crackles. Dylan holds his breath. 

He has thought about this moment. What he'll say, what Connor will say, how they'll be, how it ends. If he's honest, about 75% of the time it’s with a kiss. He's imagined it passionate, harsh and sloppy, making out against a wall somewhere. One of them snapping and giving in. He's imagined it drunk. He's imagined it soft, Connor crying and apologizing. He's imagined crying too. He's always imagined it as themselves, the way they used to be, kids who lived for hockey and each other. Warm and easy and safe.

That last year, when they were playing apart, it never felt like _them_. Connor was gone and growing up and Dylan was in the same place. If he admits it to himself, that's what went wrong last summer, even when they were home. He hadn't changed enough.

He still doesn't think he's changed much. It's been hard to know how to; living in the same place and doing the same things. He feels older than all these new guys, but not older like _this_ , with a nice haircut and an expensive watch, a C on his NHL jerseys. The gap between them suddenly feels bigger than he'd realized, like they're on continents drifting apart. Who _is_ Connor? And who is he?

Tears spring into his eyes, surprising him. Connor isn't going to snap and push him up against a wall, like in some movie. He isn't going to apologize for growing up. The change started two years ago, and maybe it would be like this even if Dylan had stuck in Arizona, changed the way Connor has.

He turns his head away, rubbing quickly at his eyes with the back of one hand, trying not to lose it in front of Connor. Which is stupid, because Connor knows him as well as anyone, and there's no way he can hide this from him. Dylan closes his eyes, still turned away, and waits for Connor to go.

But he doesn't. Dylan can still feel the warmth of his body not far away, hear his breathing like he used to at night. Finally:

"I wanted it to be the same," Connor says, his voice rough and unsteady, not much more than a whisper. "I — tried, Dylan. OK? I did try." 

And Dylan doesn't say _it wasn't good enough_ , even though it wasn't. He knows how much of himself Connor gives to everyone. It's not his fault that Dylan needs more.

"OK" is all Dylan says, almost inaudibly, through his closed-up throat. He can still feel the warmth of Connor's nearness, and it's like he's a flower wanting the sun, everything in him aching for Connor. But he can't ask him for anything, because he already knows the answer.

They're both holding their breath. Finally, Dylan feels Connor move, and he braces himself for Connor to go.

Connor reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. “Good luck tomorrow," he says, before he moves away.

Dylan has to take a sleeping pill that night, for the first time in a while. He knows his stupid brain won't shut up otherwise. The next day, there's so much going on that he can't focus on anything but the game. Someone tells him Connor is up in the media booth and he shakes his head, because he can't care about that now. The game is all that matters — and they take it, with him scoring the game-winner.

After, he hugs his family and goes to celebrate with the guys in someone's room, just the team. Connor doesn't show this time, which is fine. He doesn't even know if Connor is sticking around for the whole tournament, or what it would mean if he does. Would it be for the Otters? Or has Connor just gotten so used to the spotlight he can't stand being out of it for long? Dylan feels like shit for thinking that, but he can't help it.

He's just starting to fall asleep when his phone buzzes. _hey congrats sweet goal_

Dylan hesitates, holding his phone. The power move would be to keep ignoring Connor. Probably better for himself, too. Move on, grow up, get over it. He's still raw from the evening before, too, and all the stuff he didn't say. He doesn't know if he wants a cheery, superficial text convo, acting like they're fine when that's not how he feels.

But not answering feels like he's being a petty baby, so he's screwed either way. _thx felt good_ , he sends, not leaving an opening for more.

 _raddy having a good season_ , Connor says, right away, and Dylan curses himself but he says, _lol which one_

It goes on like that for the next hour, as Dylan's eyelids get heavier; short texts about the Otters and their season and the tournament. It's a relief to talk to Connor again like this, like they used to, but Dylan hates himself too, for giving in. This won't go anywhere. Every time he sends a text he bites his lip, waiting to see if this will be the time Connor stops answering.

He doesn't even know when he falls asleep, but when he wakes up the next morning there's one last message from Connor. _lunch tomorrow?_

Dylan says, truthfully, _can't, team stuff_ , but he doesn't hesitate too long before saying, _I can do dinner if you want to see my family_.

When he gets out of the shower: _definitely_

Dylan's mom _loves_ Connor. Which is good, because it helps get over the weirdness of them still not talking much. Ryan talks to Connor too, which is a little more awkward for Dylan because they have that whole NHL thing going, but he mostly ignores them and talks to his dad about yesterday instead. 

What's weirdest is how this isn't weird, how things can just roll back to the way they were two years ago. Connor's laughing next to him and his parents never even knew they were dating, let alone that they broke up. It feels like they never did.

He told Ryan a little, though, and Ryan pulls him aside outside the restaurant bathroom. 

"Hey, how's it going? With — ” He jerks his head.

"It's fine," Dylan says, fast. 

Ryan gives him a look, squinting. “Are you guys, like, friends now?" 

Dylan sighs and tips his head back against the wall of the little hall. “No. I don't know. We've been talking, this weekend." Ryan's still looking at him, hard. Dylan gestures in frustration. "It's fine. Nothing's changed. I just want to focus on the tournament." 

The bathroom door opens, and Ryan gives him one more Look before he goes in. “Take care of yourself, Dyl. You never do, when it comes to Connor."

 _fuck_ , Dylan sighs, as the door swings shut, and stares up at the ceiling.

When he gets back to the table, Connor and Ryan are fighting over the check. They both look up and his dad grabs it.

"Sweetie, we're heading out," his mom says. "Maybe Ryan wants to stay, though?" Ryan just shakes his head.

“ _I’ll_ stay,” Matt says, and his mom shakes her head at him.

They clear out, after his mom kisses Connor goodbye, and then it's just Dylan and Connor alone at the table. Connor clears his throat, looking down.

“Um," he says. "You wanna get a drink?"

Dylan twists his napkin. 

The evening has been OK. At first he was faking it, like Connor asked, but it was nice to text last night and today, and this felt like more of the same. Whatever happened between them, that part feels the same.

He's still not sure he trusts himself around Connor right now, especially if drinking is involved. He's pretty sure he should just go back to his room, and maybe they'll text again sometime. Hockey, whatever. This is their relationship now. It makes him feel a little sick, but trying to act like things haven't changed might be even worse. He should say no.

"Yeah, OK," he says.

"Um," Connor says. "If we go out, I might be — um, people know I'm here. So it's kind of hard for me…”

He's trying so, so hard not to be an asshole about how famous he is, and fine, Dylan doesn't want to be mobbed by his fans anyway. He put up with enough of that in high school. “Let’s just get room service," he says.

So now they're lying on Dylan's bed, most of the way through the bottle of whiskey Connor ordered. He had like, opinions on brands. Taylor Hall apparently taught him how to live. It wasn't a big bottle, but Dylan still feels warm and happy enough to say, without looking over, "Tell me about the playoffs.”

So Connor does. All the stuff Dylan missed, since he canceled his Google alert on Connor's name last year, all the public drama and whatever. But also how intense it was, captaining a team that far with a whole city's hopes on them, christening the new arena. How much he hoped, too.

It's all there in Connor's voice; how pissed he was during the Anaheim series, how good it felt to win in San Jose, all the funny and bad and good stuff, and Dylan knows Connor again. He's exactly the same as he ever was, no matter what's changed on the outside. Funny and focused and serious and sweet, and caring so much about what matters to him. Dylan used to be one of those things, he thinks.

He turns his face towards Connor, and after a while, Connor looks back. They're both silent, Connor trailing off. Dylan doesn't know if he's supposed to say something here. He hopes not. 

Connor's just looking at him, soft and finally not sad. He's had this awful pity in his eyes every time they've met, awkward and embarrassed, but now he's looking at Dylan like he sees him. And when he finally leans in, they both close their eyes, sharing the same darkness. 

They were each other's first everything. Sixteen, seventeen. It took a while for them to realize how much it meant. Seventeen, eighteen. Their first kiss was a joke until it wasn't, and everything after was discovery, exploration, grounds for something more. It took them a while to realize what they were building was themselves, together. 

And it's all there, everything they made, everything they were to each other. Like it's been packed away, preserved and perfect. Waiting.

Connor kisses him so warm and so desperate, and the sound he makes against Dylan's mouth, touching his face, hurts so good. Dylan touches Connor’s face too, tracing his jaw, brushing back his hair, and it just goes on this like this; soft, deep kissing, like they're sixteen again. They were buzzed a lot back then, too, and it wasn't supposed to mean anything then either, just how good it felt to be together.

Finally their kisses slow, and Connor's the one who leans away. Dylan can feel his breath, the rise and fall of his chest. 

"I should go," Connor says, low and deep.

Now Dylan _is_ supposed to say something, and he doesn't know what. Ask him to stay? He's not even sure he wants that. There's so much opening up, huge and painful; so many ways for him to get hurt again. He doesn't know what Connor wants, either, and he used to be so good at that. It's what it was all about, in the end, and that's why he finally broke it off — to let it be his choice for once. 

He could do that again here. He doesn't think Connor really wants to go. He said that, but he's still here, and Dylan can hear how his breathing is unsteady, waiting.

Dylan hasn't thought much about whether it hurt Connor, breaking up. They seemed so far apart back then, and like Connor was already done. Dylan thought he was just the first one to say what they were both thinking anyway. But maybe Connor wanted it to work, even though it was impossible. Maybe Connor did want things to stay the same; maybe some part of him wanted to be back in Erie, together. Not a big enough part, but it was there.

And maybe what Dylan can do here is bridge that impossible gap, make it be enough for them, even though it's hard. Even though it hurts. Put himself out there. Say "stay," even knowing Connor might not.

In the end, Dylan doesn't say anything. He kisses Connor, firmer than before, meaning it. He holds Connor here, with him. _Stay_ , he says with his kisses, his hands. _Stay for tonight_.

Connor groans when Dylan pushes him back, climbing over his body. His arms go around Dylan's shoulders, holding him close. His lips are still soft but his kisses aren't, each one like he's taking something he needs from Dylan, air or water. 

_Fuck_ , Dylan forgot what that felt like — to be needed by Connor. To be something Connor can have.

They kiss until his mouth feels swollen and sensitive, and then he slides down, under Connor's arms. Connor groans again. When Dylan moves, his head spins, and he doesn't know if it's the whiskey or how hard his heart is pounding. This doesn't feel real. He's imagined it so many times in the last year, but he left out so many details in his head. The taste and smell of Connor. The way his legs shake. The tight pull of his fingers in Dylan's hair.

There are new things, too; soft, fitted briefs instead of the dumb baggy boxers he used to wear. Connor’s hips, rocking up. He never used to move before, always worried he'd hurt Dylan. It something Dylan's forgotten, the little ways Connor took care of him too. 

He doesn't mind this, but it's another way Connor is different now. That feeling of continental drift hits him again, and Dylan has to close his eyes tight, getting on with it. He knows what he's getting into. Connor is holding his head softly, saying his name, a desperate edge to his voice. Maybe Dylan's different, too.

Dylan shuts it all out, loses himself in getting Connor off with his mouth. He's missed this, so much he hasn't been able to think about it much. And after all, it's the same; even as he thrusts into Dylan's mouth Connor strokes his head, covers his ears, presses his knees against his shoulders, feet shifting restlessly. When he comes he still moans Dylan's name, soft, half-gasping.

Dylan moves up right after, lying across Connor, face buried against his shoulder. He's not sure what happens next, or what he wants. Connor holds him, breathing hard, and after a while he shoves Dylan over and undoes his pants, leaning in.

This is worse.

Dylan can think. It hurts. He can see Connor, eyes shut, looking as lost in it as Dylan felt a few minutes ago. He remembers other hotel rooms, other beds, other nights. Other mornings, other summers. Another life. He's close but that hardly seems to matter, because there's something crushing his chest, choking his throat, too big to survive.

He brings his hands up from Connor's shoulders to his own face, pressing his palms over his eyes. He's shaking, trying to hold it in. Connor does something twisting and tight with his mouth and Dylan comes, sharp. He lets out a cry that turns into a sob, and he can't hold on now.

He cried, the night of the draft. Cried when Connor left for Edmonton, cried his first night in Arizona. Cried when he didn't make the team his first year. He didn't cry the night he told Connor not to call him again. He hadn't cried all that long, shitty summer, like his feelings had dried up. Like he couldn't survive losing Connor if he really let himself feel it.

He's feeling it all now, and he's smothering under the weight of it, a huge, cold green tide. He's never going to surface again. But he does, after a long time, and he can still feel Connor at the end of the bed, waiting.

"Do you want me to stay?" Connor asks, his voice rough, like he's been feeling it too.

Dylan shakes his head, hands still over his eyes. Then he sniffles, and nods.

He feels Connor move, stretching out alongside him, head on the pillow. Connor puts his hand on Dylan’s chest, and neither of them says a thing as they fall asleep.

When he wakes up, it's early morning and Connor is in the shower. Dylan feels gross, stiff from lying in the same place all night. He checks his phone to see a text from Brinksy, wanting to come by before practice. Dylan glances at the bathroom door, then texts, _I'll bring coffee to you_.

When Connor comes out, Dylan is already dressed, gross as he was, and putting on his shoes. "Hey, I gotta go meet Brinksy and get down to the rink," he says, trying to sound casual, normal.

Connor's face is carefully blank, though he blinks. "Yeah, sure." There's a silence. "Uh — " 

Dylan cringes, inside. He just wants to get back to his real life for a little while, the team and the tournament. He can't do dinner, can't be worrying about Connor and what this all means. “Listen, I've gotta focus on the game tomorrow,” he blurts out. "Uh, you're coming, right?" 

Connor nods, swallowing. "Yeah."

"I'll see you after? I don't know how late it'll be, but..." 

Connor nods again. "Text me when you can."

There's a heavy, thick silence. It feels like Dylan's stuck where he is, shoving his foot into his shoe. He reaches for his wallet on the nightstand and stands up, coming into the hallway.

Connor steps aside, looking at him as he goes. They never used to kiss each other goodbye. It felt weird, and anyway they were usually going to the same place. Even if they had, it wouldn't feel right now. 

Dylan smiles, jerking his head up, and Connor smiles back. It's kind of a wince. Dylan goes out the door, feeling like he screwed up but not knowing what else he could've done. This whole thing is probably a mistake.

 _Ex sex_ , he keeps telling himself the rest of the day. It's not like he's done it before, for obvious reasons, but he knows about it. He's stressed, he's lonely, Connor looks good — Dylan knows exactly why this is happening. It doesn't have to mean anything. 

All the same stuff is still there. None of their problems are solved, even if he's in Arizona next year instead of Erie. It’s not like Phoenix is any closer to Edmonton, other than the few games they'd play against each other. Dylan lets himself think about being traded sometimes, but it makes him feel sick to imagine the Yotes dumping him so fast. He can't see a way forward, and he makes himself stop thinking about it in bed that night, after reading Connor’s _good luck_ text.

The next night, he scores four goals.

So — the whole night builds up crazier and crazier. The moment when he's got six points, tied with Taylor for the tournament record. The moment when he gets his fourth goal and the place goes absolutely fucking crazy. The moment the buzzer goes off and they win. Media, shower, more media, family, hotel, finally down to someone's room to party. His phone is blowing up all night, and he hasn't even checked it since this morning.

Which is why he doesn't know, when he gets down to the party, that Connor is already there.

They smile at each other across the room, like yesterday morning. Except it's totally different now; the crowd keeps them apart, and the sense of strain is gone, with only the old, powerful warmth between them. Even after everything he's been thinking about, Dylan knows it's only a matter of time tonight. 

At some point, Connor hugs him. "Fucking awesome game, man, congratulations." 

Everyone is watching them, and no one. Connor doesn't let go yet, but pulls Dylan closer, hugging him again. Dylan's heart is going like crazy. It's so loud in here, but he can still hear Connor's voice against his ear. “ _After this. I want you. Please?_ ”

He hugs Connor tighter before pulling away. He looks back as he goes, though, and Connor's face is pale and serious. Dylan nods, once, and turns to talk to someone else.

He doesn't hurry through the party. This is his night, and he wants to celebrate it, as long as it lasts. But he doesn't drink as much, and as it gets later, Connor comes closer to him and doesn't move away. 

It's hard to believe Dylan thought he was going to have to fake this a few days ago, being close to Connor. The guys who know them both think it's normal, because they were always attached at the hip. The younger guys are starstruck. Nobody says anything about Connor's arm slung over Dylan's shoulders, his hand ruffling his hair. Dylan looks over — Connor's got his tie loosened, suit coat off, a few buttons undone — and wants him more than he has in his whole life.

Somehow it's late, and somehow Connor has drawn him near the door, hand still on his shoulder. It's still wild in here, loud and close, and hardly anyone notices. “Bye!" someone shouts at them, and it's picked up by the room. Dylan finds himself echoing it back. 

This is happening.

He's leaving the party with Connor, his former best friend, who broke his heart even though Dylan's the one who broke up with him. He's kind of buzzed again, but this time it's as much exhaustion and the high of the game as anything. _Four motherfucking goals_. And for once this season he doesn't listen to the voice that says, _it's just juniors, it doesn't mean anything_.

This, with Connor, shouldn't mean anything either, but Connor hasn't taken his hand off Dylan's shoulder, guiding him out and down the hall. It's quiet out here, and dim. The hum of lights, the buzz of the ice machine, the ding of the far-off elevator. Dylan knows the wet, astringent smell of hotels so well by now, and it's still strange he's played as many seasons without Connor as they played together.

In his room, though, he shuts the door and does what he always did after a win, pushes Connor up against it and then their mouths together. Connor goes easily, like he's expecting it, like he remembers too, his body falling easily under Dylan's. He cups Dylan's head in his hands, tender and wanting, and that's familiar too, like the rise and fall of his chest under Dylan's. Everything feels the same.

Dylan doesn't think Connor drank that much either, because he doesn't smell like it. He tastes like himself, slightly metallic, as he nips at Dylan’s lower lip. Dylan always liked that, the edge of sharpness in Connor's kiss at times like this. The feeling that kept him on his toes, stopped him from falling all the way in. 

Connor's breathing hard, pulling away after each kiss, making them count. He always comes back but there's a lingering moment between, when Dylan wants him more than he can stand. Dylan chases him every time, and Connor lets him, gasping against his mouth when he's caught.

"Dylan," he finally breathes, between their mouths. "I want — let me fuck you, please. Lemme make it good."

Dylan's heart flips in his chest, painful. Connor is holding him close, kissing him again, and his ears are ringing, his head dizzy with blood pulsing at his temples. He's made the decision, though; he's here tonight, in for whatever happens, however big a mistake it is. He can't stop it now. Dylan takes a step back, towards the bed.

They strip down fast, tugging at their own clothes and helping each other. Connor pulls Dylan's shirt over his head and runs his hands down his bare chest. Dylan yanks Connor's tie and makes a knot of it, too tight. He laughs, exhaling, and Connor smiles too, the heaviness lifting for a moment. Then they're back to it again, kissing, hands everywhere. 

Connor takes off his pants and pulls lube and condoms out of his pocket, putting them on the nightstand. Dylan turns to look and Connor sucks at his neck, hard. The tube isn’t new. Which, of course not, Connor couldn't have gone shopping for that in Windsor, not with the media following him around, but — he brought it. He planned something. Hoped for something.

Dylan has the sudden horrible thought that maybe Connor wasn't even thinking of him in particular, and turns back to kiss him hard.

He gets on the bed first, naked, lying on his stomach. It feels vulnerable and hidden at once, his face against the pillow. He doesn't have to look at Connor this way, and that's easier, but waiting for Connor to touch him is hard. 

Dylan expects it’ll be fast and efficient, to go with the urgency from before, but Connor’s hands are soft and longing, his fingers brushing over the backs of Dylan's thighs. Like he wants to feel Dylan, wants Dylan to feel good. Dylan squeezes his eyes shut tighter, trying not to arch into Connor's touch. He wants this too much.

Now Connor leans in, mouthing over Dylan's shoulders, down his spine. Dylan can feel his breath, his warmth, and lets out a soft moan. He's trying so hard to hold himself back, and not fall all the way in. To let it be what it is, not what he wants, because it can't be anything.

Finally Connor touches him, opening him up. It's just as slow as before, and he's doing it carefully, making it good. Dylan gets himself together more, breathing deep. He can rock into Connor's hand now, being a part of this. 

Connor leans away after a while, ripping open a condom, and that's — fuck, ok, that's how it has to be now. They used them for a few months when they were still pretending this didn't mean much, when Connor fucked other people and Dylan pretended to himself that he didn't care, but not once they got serious. Dylan gets it, of course he does, but his heart still aches as he listens to the sounds of Connor getting ready. It's just another reminder that they aren't who they used to be.

Now Connor gets back on the bed again, lying down behind Dylan and pulling him onto his side. He gets both arms around Dylan, one sliding underneath his chest, wrapped around him to hold him close, and kisses the back of Dylan's neck. Dylan brings up his hands to hold onto Connor's forearm, grounding himself. It feels so good to have Connor pressed up against him; too good.

Connor breathes through his mouth, wet and shaky-sounding. He shivers once, a tremble Dylan can feel through his whole body. Connor takes in another breath, through his nose, like he wants Dylan's scent. Like he's just as rocked by all this as Dylan is.

"Dylan," he says softly, almost a whimper. "God, can I — you want it, right? You want this?"

He strokes his other hand up and down Dylan’s side, over his belly and onto his hip, grasping it. Dylan just nods, because he can't speak through his tight throat.

"Dylan," Connor says, insistently, like he has to hear it. Like he needs to know how deep Dylan feels.

And that's not fair, Dylan's been feeling raw and turned inside-out for almost two years, while Connor's been living it up, but maybe — maybe Connor's felt the same. It's not fair but maybe Dylan has to forgive him first.

“I want you," Dylan says, hating how his voice is so rough, breaking. "Connor, you don't even know — oh, _fuck_.” He squeezes Connor's arm tight, fingers digging in, and Connor doesn't ask for more.

Instead he shifts, getting himself positioned, still holding onto Dylan's hip. They both groan as he works himself inside, little by little. It's too deep and too much and Dylan just keeps his eyes closed and focuses on his breathing, on nothing but this. He's been with people since they broke up, guys too, but he still hasn't done this with anybody else. 

This feels like the very first time ever, another hotel room after a win, Connor breathing so hard in Dylan's ear. The slow, jerky way he finds a rhythm, getting further in. His body tense as he moves, and then the sudden deep smooth slide. The way he builds up speed until his hips slap against Dylan, their bodies thudding together like Dylan's pulse in his throat.

Dylan swallows hard, dry, gasping. He has to brace himself against the bed, against the power of Connor’s body. Connor still has his arm tight around Dylan’s chest and his grip fierce on his hip. He's moving fast now, groaning, and Dylan had forgotten how this felt, to be something Connor wanted so bad. To make Connor feel so good.

Connor inside him is _so much_ , a reminder of everything they were, a presence he can't forget, taking up space in him. Dylan wants this breathless pace, hurtling forward to the finish, too much and just right and blocking out everything else. He moans, _yeah, come on_ , and then — Connor stops.

Dylan's panting hard, and he thinks maybe Connor is just getting a breath, taking a break. It's a shock, instead, when Connor's hand moves off his hip and wraps around his cock. 

Dylan sucks in a startled breath. " _Fuck_.”

Connor lifts his head, nuzzling closer, under Dylan's ear. His voice is low, raspy. "Wanna make you feel good."

Dylan laughs, disbelieving; like it wasn't good enough before. But Connor is fingering his cock, stroking him, and it's not the desperate rush of the last time. Now he's gentle, running his fingers up and down, drawing it out. Dylan moans and arches his back into it, that soft lingering touch.

Finally Connor takes him in hand again, kissing under his ear. He starts to move too; slow, rocking his hips in time. Dylan feels it like honey running through his whole body, sweet and melting. He moves one hand down to grasp Connor's wrist.

"Connor," he sighs. He rocks his hips back into Connor's steady thrusts, and Connor pushes him up into his grip. " _God_.”

It goes from good to incredible. Dylan tips his head back, panting shallowly, and Connor lets go for a moment to turn his face, cupping his cheek. They kiss, straining to do it, as Connor fucks him and strokes him, their bodies rocking together. Dylan gasps hard now, breathing Connor's air, surrounded and filled and unable to think of anything else.

"Oh god, oh god,” he keeps groaning, his nails digging into Connor's forearm. His legs tense up, his whole body going rigid. “I'm gonna — Connor, I'm gonna — ” he moans, and Connor's arm tightens around his chest.

"Cmon Dylan, you can, you can, please," Connor mutters, jacking him hard and thrusting into him. "Just like — ”

Dylan groans, reaching for it, and then he's over the line, shuddering, the feeling too much as it rolls through him like a heavy tide.

He doesn't know what he shouts out, only that his throat aches as he washes up on the far side, still wrapped in Connor's arms. Connor's breath is warm against his ear, and Dylan doesn't have to strain at all to catch his faint " _love you, love you_.” 

It pierces through Dylan sharply, even though he’s still buzzing all over. Connor shifts his grip back to Dylan's hip, and moans as he moves, like he's hurting too. It doesn't take long for him to come, hips snapping hard. Dylan squeezes his eyes shut. 

There's a silence, like the night before last. Dylan wishes he could just fall asleep like he did then, pushing all of this off. He doesn't know what to say, or how he feels. He misses Connor, and he wants him, but that's easy to think when they're in bed together. There's a whole world outside this room, a whole life. Being together isn't simple.

And he's still thinking about that short, shitty text he got last fall, _sorry about getting cut, man_. How he's spent years being there for Connor, because that's how it went, and how _love you, love you_ seven months later maybe isn't enough.

Finally Connor moves back, and Dylan makes himself roll over, meet his eyes. He catches his breath, because it's all out there, everything Connor feels. Soft and yearning and loving, all the things he could be, when he wasn't focused and distant. Dylan doesn't want to have to be the one to make the hard choice again. Doesn't want to have to defend himself against someone who loves him, who doesn't even know that being loved is what hurt more than anything, because it wasn't enough.

"I — can't tonight," Dylan says, words rushing out. "I can't talk about this. There's too much. The tournament."

Connor looks hurt, biting his lip, but he nods. "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to — mess with your game.”

It's easy to make hockey the excuse. "It's fine," Dylan says. "But I should, uh, probably get some rest. Practice tomorrow."

"Yeah," Connor says. He hesitates just a moment, and Dylan knows he's thinking over his words. "I'll let you get some sleep."

He gets up and cleans up, his back to Dylan. Dylan rolls over, looking for yesterday's shirt on the floor. Connor takes his clothes into the bathroom and comes out dressed a few minutes later. He picks up his coat and tie off the floor, then pauses to look at Dylan. 

Connor smiles. It's careful, slow and unsure, but genuine. "That was amazing tonight, four goals. You're amazing, Dyls."

"Yeah, well," Dylan says, flapping his hand, playing it cool. Then he meets Connor's eyes and says, simply. "Thanks."

He doesn't get a lot of sleep, yawning the next morning, but no one notices how out of it he is because the rest of the team was up late too. Coach Kris yells at them, telling them to get it together, but he's doesn't look too mad. It was a good game.

Brinsky skates up to him at a break, when Dylan is helmet-less and squirting water all over his sweaty head. "Hey, did I see you leave with Connor last night?"

Dylan squirts more water. "Uh." 

Brinsky makes a face. Dylan didn't tell him they broke up, in so many words, but they never said they were dating either, and he seemed to know then too. "Dylan. It's the tournament. Come on, you gotta keep focused." 

Dylan shakes water off his face and frowns. "Who says I'm not focused? Were you watching me last night? I'm fine." His voice is high, defensive.

"Yeah, well, we need two more wins, Stromer. I know how you get about Davo. I just don't want…”

Dylan runs his hand over his face and jams his helmet back on. "What? You don't want what?"

Brinksy sighs. "I guess I don't want you to get distracted. _And_ I don't want you to get hurt again. You were — kind of a mess last fall."

Heat rushes into Dylan's face. He'd thought he'd done a pretty good job of hiding it, playing through the pain, but he guesses not. “I know what I'm doing," he says with a huff. "I'd never mess with the team. I sent him home last night, OK? After — " He stops, face hot.

Brinksy makes a face again, kind of wincing. He looks sorry for Dylan, which puts a different kind of heat in Dylan's face. He's not a kid people have to take care of.

But he is the captain of this team, and Alex is just looking out for him and everyone else. He makes himself take a deep breath, and sighs. “Thanks," he says, carefully, deliberately. "I'll keep my head up."

"Cool," Brinksy says, and reaches out to slap his shoulder. "Sweet dick trick last night, eh? Do that again tomorrow."

Dylan does the opposite of that. 

He sleeps terribly again, thinking of the game and the bye and only a little about Connor, and the next day everything seems off. He hasn't heard from Connor since Monday night, and he doesn't know what that means, if Connor's giving him space, or backing off. And he's mad at himself for feeling disappointed, when he's the one who asked for space anyway.

He keeps thinking about Connor holding him afterwards, whispering in his ear. That wasn’t pretend. There was a long time when he knew Connor better than anyone, the difference between Connor on the ice or in front of a camera, and the real person. He knows Connor’s sorry. He just doesn't know if it's enough.

In the meantime, he has a game to play, and nobody does it very well. Maybe they get cocky or maybe they're still tired from Monday, but the game is a disaster — they go down early, and never make it back. A Spitfire gets a hatty, their defense is weak, and everyone feels like they're playing sloppy and slow, like an underwater nightmare.

Dylan barely makes it through media, after. He wears his headphones on the bus back to the hotel, and doesn't talk to anyone. No one wants to anyway. It was a really late game, but he still goes back to Ryan and Matty's suite when they text him; they've got an Xbox and he wants to zone out, wipe away the loss for a while.

It kind of works. Shooting things always helps. He's in the middle of his second Infinite Warfare run when his phone goes off on the arm of his chair. 

Matt looks at it. "Hey, Connor's still up,” he says. “Tell him to come over.”

Ryan smacks the back of his head, gently. "Let Dylan decide, dummy." 

“It's his best friend, why wouldn't he want him here?" Matt asks, scowling.

Dylan finally reaches over for his phone and looks himself. _hey u still awake?_ He texts back, _yeah hangin w my brothers_.

Connor answers right away, like he's holding the phone. _oh sorry talk to u later_

Dylan glances at his brothers, at Matty still looking confused and Ryan looking way too concerned, and sends back a quick reply. “I told him to come down," he says, shrugging. 

“Cool, maybe he'll bring beer," Matty says. Ryan just shakes his head.

Connor does bring a sixer when he knocks at the door fifteen minutes later. That means one for each of them and Ryan grabs a second beer, after closing the door behind Connor. “Service time privilege," he announces, with a smug grin.

Connor and Dylan look at each other, over the back of the couch. “You can take it if you want," Connor says. 

Dylan shakes his head. Being too buzzed seems bad, dangerous. “You brought it.”

Matty reaches in and swipes the last beer. “Too slow, suckers,” he laughs, and Ryan smacks his head again. "Take it easy,” Ryan says.

Matt grabs his arm and they wrestle. Connor moves out of the way, ignoring them. Dylan's brothers are always like this in the summer.

Connor comes around to sit in the middle of the couch, lifting his chin in a nod. Dylan nods back and loads up a new game while Connor opens his beer, settling back. They pick a map and start to play, not saying anything but game talk. This is easy, familiar; two seasons and two summers spent on other people's couches, gaming and drinking. Connor trips a land mine and Dylan chirps him; Dylan makes a sweet snipe and raises his arms, crowing. Connor laughs. 

Ryan and Matty finish their bullshit and climb onto the couch, pushing Dylan and Connor together. It's hard to play like this, elbowing each other. Dylan dies and Matt reaches over Connor for the controller. 

“My turn, Dyl-weed," he says, that old stupid joke.

Now Dylan's got nothing to do but concentrate on his beer and the game, and Connor pressed right up next to him. His face is hot, he knows. It's like being in high school again, slowly figuring out Connor made him feel different and it wasn't just the hockey star thing. He knew Connor, the real guy, who was a shitty roommate and always hung around practice too long, so nobody else could leave either. Who drove everybody hard over meaningless games, and always needed chem homework help. He was Davo, not McJesus, but Dylan still lit up every time they were close and finally he figured out why.

He's back there now, even though they fucked two nights ago, even though they dated for almost three years before that. Connor is special to everyone. This is just how Connor's special to Dylan, and all the months apart haven't changed it.

Connor is still playing, concentrating on the game, but Dylan feels him shifting, tense. This is familiar too. He remembers the slow, disbelieving realization that Connor felt the same way about him; maybe because Dylan didn't treat him like everyone else. 

Dylan finally sighs, lifting his arm and stretching it out on the couch behind Connor's shoulders, his hand bumping Matt's arm. This is normal, the way he would've sat two years ago, even four. He doesn't want to think about this stuff so much, for a while.

Connor's shoulders are stiff, and he's leaning forward to concentrate on the game, but finally he relaxes and leans all the way back. Dylan glances over and sees Connor's just staring at the screen, but maybe there's a little smile at the corners of his mouth.

He catches sight of Ryan too, head tilted to look at him behind the other guys. _What are you doing_ , Ryan mouths.

Dylan just presses his lips together and shakes his head, turning back to the screen. "Hey, I got next."

Sometime around two Ryan looks up from his phone, while Matt and Dylan are duking it out. "Shit guys, it's late. I'm kicking you out."

Matt groans, but Connor gets to his feet. "Yeah. Good to see you again, Ryan." Ryan stands up and slaps his hand, pulling him in to bump chests.

"You too, dude. Gonna kick your ass next season." It's just the usual talk, but it reminds Dylan once again that they're different, somewhere he's not. 

He hits pause and stands up. “Fine, guess I'll head out. I'm already breaking curfew.” 

Ryan looks at him, and then Connor. "Yeah, get some sleep," he says carefully. "Don't do anything stupid. It's the Cup, Dyl."

And the thing is, it's not the _Cup_. It matters, but not like the real finals would, and suddenly Dylan feels bad he hasn't said anything to Ryan about his team not making it this year. He's got that awful, drifting feeling again, like he's going to get left behind by everyone he know, stuck in some weird limbo while his friends and brothers move on. Maybe next it'll be Matt.

Dylan shakes his head, trying to think of something else, and Connor speaks up. "I won't let him do anything dumb, don't worry."

Now Ryan's looking at Connor, head tipped slightly. "He's always taking care of everybody else, you know? He could use it too, sometimes."

"Fuck you, I'm not a kid,” Dylan says, hitting Ryan's shoulder, but Connor just nods. "Yeah."

It's quiet in the hall when they leave, like two nights ago after the party. It's really late. They don't talk, again. Dylan thinks about Connor's warmth next to him all night, and that buzzy high school feeling. About Connor taking care of him. About that shitty loss tonight, and the semifinal on Friday. About the summer, about the future. About _his_ future.

Connor's room is on this floor, but Dylan's is the next one up. They walk past the elevator, and Dylan doesn't stop. Connor looks at him. He doesn't say anything, though, all the way down to his own room. He unlocks it with the key card, and doesn't look back as Dylan follows him in.

It's dark in here, the curtains shut. Connor didn't leave a light on. He really was a shitty roommate, back in the day. He reaches into the bathroom to flip the switch, which lights up the hall they're standing in, but not much. He's got that sad, serious look on his face again, and Dylan doesn’t want that, not directed at him. 

Dylan swallows, looking back. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know," Connor says. "But — ” 

Annoyance flares through Dylan. "But what? My fucking brother said so? All you NHL guys gotta look out for me now?"

Connor frowns, looking hurt; his mouth drops open a little. He shakes his head. "No, asshole. Sometimes that's how people show they care." 

“Oh, _now_ you — ” Dylan starts, and then snaps his mouth closed, lips pressed tight. He's furious, but he doesn't want to do this now, after the loss and everybody getting on his back. There's too much to say, and once he starts he won't stop.

Connor’s staring at him like he knows, though. He licks his lips. “I care about you,” he says, voice scratchy. “You know that, right?” 

Dylan just wants him to shut up, because he can't feel like this, wanting and hurting and trying to play it smart and keep his head. He reaches out, taking hold of Connor's shoulders, and falls back against the door, pulling Connor with him roughly. It knocks the breath out of them both.

“Are you sure this is a good idea right now?" Connor mutters, hands braced on the door. His mouth is so close to Dylan's.

"No," Dylan says, and kisses him.

This time it's fast, and desperate, and familiar. It goes the way it always did after a loss, trying to forget it in each other. It's not Connor's loss but Dylan tries to forget that too, undressing, touching, kissing.

He thinks — tonight he wishes he could fuck Connor. Hold him down, look into his eyes, feel Connor letting him in. He never has, for a lot of reasons, and it would mean too much now for it to finally happen, but part of him wants it all the same.

Instead he lets Connor fuck him face down on the bed, knees spread, gasping into a pillow. It's better this way. He doesn't want to see Connor's face and he doesn't want Connor to see the tears on his. 

Connor says his name from time to time, a low murmur as he strokes Dylan's back and sides, slowing down. Then he'll pick up the pace again, slamming in with all the strength of his body, and Dylan doesn't know which he hates or loves more. He can lose himself in it when it's hard, sheets balled in his hands, groaning against the mattress. But he remembers doing it like this the night of the draft, and the night before Connor left for Edmonton. There are too many memories.

He can hardly stand it slow, though; the soft touch of Connor's voice, the flat calluses of his big hands sweeping over Dylan's back. Dylan finally reaches down to jack himself, taking the pace back up fast and breathless. Connor stays still at first, watching him.

"Yeah, Dylan," he breathes, against Dylan's shoulder. His hand strokes down Dylan's chest and belly, his other arm wrapping tight. “Show me how you want it." 

Dylan clenches his teeth, tilting his chin down. "Hard," he spits out.

He doesn't, he wants to come like this, with Connor warm and loving above him, but that almost killed him the other night. So he bucks Connor off, urging him up, and Connor moves again, in tandem with Dylan's hand. He holds Dylan's hips tight. 

They come almost in tandem too, Dylan gasping, face scrunched up against the intensity of it. Connor groans so loud, fingers digging into Dylan's hips, that Dylan winces. Dylan’s shaking all over, from holding himself up on one hand, and he has to collapse back down on the bed to get his breath. Connor pulls out right away, lying down next to him with an arm thrown over him.

They're both panting hard, into the late-night silence. Finally: "Sorry about the game tonight.”

Dylan has to hold back a bitter laugh. This is what he wanted from Connor last year, actually paying attention to Dylan's life. It feels a little late for him to start caring now.

“Yeah," he says. He coughs. "Just gotta think ahead to the semi."

It's quiet in the room, and late. Connor moves his hand to rub Dylan's back. 

Dylan squeezes his eyes shut, and lifts his head. “Hey, I really better get back to my room," he says. "Practice tomorrow."

He gets up and looks for his clothes, not looking back at Connor. He can feel Connor staring at him, though, and hear him breathing.

They've never stayed in a hotel where they weren't rooming together before. He's never even had his own room before this tournament. Connor's room is nicer than his, because he bought it with his own money or the network put him up. He's here to be on TV, to be a personality, be _Connor McDavid_. Dylan's always known Connor had to be lots of people. One of them was his, and still is, maybe. It’s just hard to navigate everything else Connor has to be.

He finally looks over at Connor, lying on his back and looking up at him so softly, like that first night when he came into Dylan's room. And Dylan loves him, he does, and Connor loves him too. Dylan just doesn't know if that could be enough.

"I'll see you Friday night," he says, brusquely. They both know it's true. "Good night."

Connor's quiet "good night" echoes in his ears all the way back to his room. Dylan hates being harsh with him but it's the only way, with so much else going on right now. He can't be who he was before, stupid and hopeful and giving everything away. What they're doing now, pretending this doesn't count, can't last long. The only way he can make it work is not to think about it. 

Not thinking about it works great for the next two days. He focuses hard at practice, trying to get everyone else on board too. This tournament really matters. Making the final on Sunday is all he can see ahead of him; he doesn't know what's coming for him after. This feels like it's going to fix something, give him something lasting that he can keep. Something he can hold onto, even in the middle of everything else going wrong.

It's still hard, sleeping alone the night before a big game, knowing Connor’s just one floor down. They never fooled around before games, because of Coach’s rules and because it’s just bad luck, but it would be nice to have someone here, close. Someone on his side. Dylan’s gone most of the last year without that, and now he’s felt it again it's hard to stop wanting it.

They're a better team on Friday; focused, hungry. Coach tells him to pay attention to his face offs and he does, and his goal feels like an afterthought to playing good hockey. All anybody in the room wants to do is make it through to the final. The Knights winning last year makes him feel like doing it this year could be the magic touch, like it was for Marner. Dumb and superstitious, but maybe it'll work for him too.

The after party is a little more subdued than Monday night. The game ended up another blowout, but all they're thinking about now is Sunday. Connor actually doesn't show up until later, when Dylan is just hanging with Brinksy and Taylor, chilling and talking about the Windsor defense. 

They haven't seen each other in two days, or even texted. Dylan gets the sense Connor is giving him space, like he asked, but now Connor hesitates in the doorway, unnoticed and uncertain.

This isn't Connor's team anymore. Most of the guys they played with together are gone, and after a week of seeing him the new guys aren't as starstruck anymore, focused on the final and each other. Dylan can see, from across the room, how awkward Connor looks, and for all that Connor's always ducked being famous Dylan has to wonder if he's gotten used to it. If he likes it, just a little. Maybe he doesn't know what to do with this quieter reception, from a team that's not his.

Dylan takes pity. "Davo!" he yells. "Come on over!"

They make space for him on the bed and Dylan can see Connor brightening up, relaxing. He talks about the game in detail, mentioning everybody’s good plays. Connor really loves hockey, and it's clear he's impressed by the Otters this year. The guys glow, soaking it in.

Dylan bumps shoulders with him. “Looks like I'm doing a better job running the team than you did, huh?" 

There's a brief silence, in which he remembers it was supposed to be Brinksy's team this year, and then everyone laughs.

"Hey, you didn't have to drag some old guys' asses like Connor did in Edmonton," Brinksy says, like that's what Dylan meant, and then they're all talking to Connor about _his_ playoffs.

That's fine, Dylan's as proud of Connor as anyone, and it's not like he can ignore Connor's success. If he feels bad that's on him. If Dylan’s gotten good at anything it's smiling about Connor doing well when he's aching inside.

The party winds down early, everyone getting quiet around the same time. Dylan's one of the last people. He's talking with a d-man about the Windsor forwards, when he looks up and sees Connor is gone.

And OK, he made it clear he wanted to focus. Maybe he shouldn't have made that dumb joke before. Maybe this weird thing is over. He hates himself for feeling disappointed, when he knew it was a bad idea all along. He guesses he's just mad Connor gets to be the one to call it off this time.

Dylan says goodbye to the guys who’re still there and goes into the hall, pulling out his phone. There's a text from Connor, and his heart flips.

_went back to my room but let me know if you want to hang_

_Hang_ , Dylan thinks, looking up at the ceiling. That could probably mean whatever he wants it to.

He's not sure what he wants. It's late, but not that late. He thinks of Brinksy and Ryan, the voice inside telling him this is a distraction, bad for his game.

But it's Connor. He shuts his eyes, leaning back against the wall of the hallway. He's always stupid when it comes to Connor. It's been months but it's always going to feel like Connor is the center of the world.

 _yeah come over_ , he texts back, and goes back to his room.

"Hey," Connor says softly, when Dylan opens his door. 

Dylan steps back and Connor follows, close. He reaches up to put his hand on the back of Dylan's neck, then pulls Dylan's head down, so their foreheads rest together. Dylan takes in a surprised breath but he sighs, closing his eyes.

"I missed you," Connor whispers, squeezing Dylan's neck. 

Dylan doesn't know if that means since Wednesday or since last year. He doesn't say anything back, just nods a little, against Connor's head.

Connor leans up to catch Dylan’s mouth with his, cupping his face with both hands. It's a deep, warm kiss, and Dylan's chest goes tight. Everything happens slow and sweet like that. Connor walks him back to the bed, undressing him. Dylan lets him. The light's low in the room and Dylan feels like he's underwater, in a dream. He's thought about this so many times, and now it just keeps happening.

They get on the bed, naked. Connor moves down between Dylan's legs, stroking his thighs. He looks up at Dylan and it's piercing, the tenderness in his eyes. He doesn't look away as he takes Dylan in, just mouthing shallowly. Dylan moans, lifting his head from the pillow to watch. Connor shifts, stretching out on the bed, and braces his hands on Dylan's hips, still going slow and shallow.

Dylan realizes he's holding his breath, tensed up all over. He wants to put his hands on Connor's head, but he's holding himself back. The last few times they've hooked up have been buzzed, sloppy, just giving way, but this feels more purposeful. Like if he really lets Connor in, it'll be a turning point, committing himself to something more than exes hooking up under weird circumstances. If he admits how much he wants this, more than just this, he’ll just get hurt again.

But god, Connor feels so good against him, and he’s so good with his hot slippery mouth, and he just keeps _looking_ at Dylan. It feels too awful to hold back here, to let this happen without giving in fully. Without loving Connor the way Connor is loving him.

Maybe Dylan will get hurt, maybe he'll look stupid or clingy later, but right now, he's willing to risk it for being real.

"Connor," he whispers, and reaches down to push his hands into Connor's hair.

Connor arches into his touch, finally closing his eyes, and it's obvious this is what he wanted. He moves deeper, taking Dylan all the way in. Dylan closes his eyes too, his hips rising into it, because Connor was always fucking amazing at this. 

It was good the other night, but there was so much else going on. Now Connor takes his time, making it tight and slow and perfect. Dylan lets himself moan louder, stroking Connor's temples with his thumbs. Tells him how good it is, how much he wants it. He stops himself from going too far, saying how much he's missed Connor and how gray his world has felt since they broke up, because he can't do that now. He can only touch Connor, rocking into his mouth, loving the warmth of his body and being here, in this moment.

"Fuck, Davo, I'm close," he finally gasps, as Connor works him up yet again. He holds Connor tight, not wanting him to back off again.

Connor does what Dylan wants, sucking him steady and smooth, until Dylan comes with a shout, clutching Connor's hair as he swallows. After, Connor crawls up his body, burying his face against Dylan's neck. He's hard but he doesn't try to get off, just holds Dylan's shoulders, lying still. Dylan can feel his warm breath, his racing heartbeat, and brings up his arms to wrap around Connor with a long sigh.

Dylan's breathless too, from more than just the blowjob. He's tired but sober, and he feels like he's thinking clearly for the first time all week, like his feelings are finally unfreezing.

He doesn't cry this time. He just knows that he wants this, as much he wants as anything else. That he’s been missing something, wrong, since last fall. That it's inevitable, immutable, even if he's not the center of Connor's world the way Connor is his.

Dylan kisses the top of Connor's head, squeezing him tight. "You wanna get off?" he whispers.

Connor tips up his head and kisses him. At first Dylan tastes only himself, but then it's all Connor. They kiss long and deep, Connor rocking against him. It's slow, languorous, going on forever, until Connor gasps against his mouth. He raises himself up to look at Dylan as he grinds harder against his hip, and Dylan holds his face in his hands. They look at each other, wide-eyed, until Connor finally closes his, coming with a low groan.

He nestles back under Dylan's chin again after, getting his breath. After a long while Dylan hears him swallow.

"Do you want me to stay?" Connor asks, his voice rough.

This time Dylan answers right away, holding him tighter. "Yeah," he says softly.

They get up and clean up together. Connor borrows a pair of sweats, and Dylan's toothbrush. He used to forget his on roadies all the time. Back then they'd get into one bed and Connor would let Dylan lie close, even though he likes space when he's sleeping. Tonight he does the same, spreading his arm above the pillows and looking up at Dylan, still standing by the bed.

Dylan holds out for one more minute. He wants to say he hasn't made up his mind, but he knows he has. Sleeping close to Connor doesn't seem like such a big deal but it _is_ , because he's choosing it, wide awake. 

So he lies down with his head tucked against Connor's shoulder, arm over his chest, and Connor wraps his arm around him. They both sigh, Connor’s long and shaky, and it's not fair to think this doesn't mean a lot to Connor too. Dylan knows it does. It just doesn't cost him as much.

Connor stays the next night too, after practice. He gets dinner with Dylan's family and it's like before, easy and comfortable, even fun. Ryan definitely knows what's going on by now and gives Dylan _looks_ whenever their glances meet. He gets Dylan alone by the bathrooms again, following him.

"Dude," Ryan says. 

Dylan sighs, shaking his head and putting up his hands. "I know, it's probably a bad idea. Just leave me alone."

"It's not a bad idea just for you," Ryan says. "What about your team?"

Dylan makes a face. "It's under control. It's not affecting my game or anything. I mean, it's probably making me _better_.”

Ryan chuffs. "You really think that?"

Dylan rolls his eyes. Ryan puts a hand on his shoulder. "Listen, I'm just saying — it's the Mem Cup. I know it matters to you more than anything. How are you going to feel if you know you didn't give it your best?" 

Dylan's ears burn for a second. He hates how Ryan said that, like the Mem is just some little thing that's important to Dylan, not real.

"I am giving it my best," Dylan says shortly. "Connor doesn't have anything to do with it." He turns and stalks into the bathroom, leaving Ryan behind.

After dinner, Connor comes back to Dylan's room. He's gone upstairs and gotten a few things from his own room first. Neither of them really discussed it; it just is. 

They don't talk about fooling around either. It's the night before a game, and Dylan’s not taking any chances. He lies on his side and Connor spoons up behind him like always, even though Dylan's taller. Maybe it got started when they were sixteen and Dylan hadn't had his big growth spurt yet; it's hard to remember now. Everything with them seems like it's always been that way, as if it couldn't be any different.

It's the night before the Memorial Cup final, at last, and Dylan feels like he couldn't be doing anything but sleeping with Connor curled around him. His sleep that night is deep, heavy, without even taking a pill. Like he's buried deep under snow, except it's warm and good, safe.

When he wakes up he's refreshed and alert and rubbing off against Connor's back.

It takes him a little to realize what's happening, because it doesn't feel out of place at all. He's happy and comfortable and Connor is here, and it only feels right to be doing this. When he wakes up a little more he realizes Connor is half-turned over, grinding against the sheets below. He's making soft, sleepy sounds, holding onto Dylan's arm wrapped around his hips. 

Dylan keeps moving for another few seconds, like a dream he doesn't want to wake up from, and then stops with a groan. "Connor. _Fuck_.”

He hears Connor snort in his sleep, jerking under him, and then Connor makes a grumbling noise, like he's just waking up too. “What?" he asks, fuzzily.

Dylan moves back a little, getting up on one elbow. "Shit. We were — messing around. _Shit_.”

Connor seems like he's still getting it together. "...OK?" 

Dylan rolls over on his back, sighing at the ceiling. "It's a _game day_.”

There's a silence, and it sounds like Connor smothers a quiet laugh. "I think it'll be fine, Dyls."

"We didn't get off," Dylan says, thinking. "So it doesn't count, right?"

This time Connor laughs out loud. He rolls over, lying on his side next to Dylan. "Sure, that's probably how it works."

"Dude, this is serious," Dylan says. "It's the rules."

Connor puts his arm over Dylan's chest and snuggles in, pressing his face against Dylan's head. "I don't think Coach Kris will find out."

Dylan scoffs. "Not those rules," he says. "Like, the universe, the hockey gods, whatever."

Connor yawns in his ear. "As far as I can tell, the hockey gods don't care who you fuck on game day."

There's a sharp silence. Dylan feels cold all through his body. He doesn't know if Connor's talking about losing to Anaheim, or about sleeping with someone and winning anyway. It doesn't really matter, and it's not like Dylan hasn't slept with people. It's not like he doesn't know Connor was in the NHL playoffs two weeks ago. He just hates this, the way these sudden walls keep coming up between them, reminding him of everything that's changed.

Connor coughs, clearing the silence. "Anyway, you're going to do awesome today," he says. "The team is crazy good. It's gonna be great."

"Yeah, I know," Dylan says, automatically. The silence comes back, more comfortable than before, and he lets himself sink into Connor's warmth. It's crazy to think he's here, on the morning of the final, just like he's dreamed for months, and crazier to think his other dream has come true too, that Connor is here with him.

Eventually, regretfully, he sits up, getting ready to start the day. He heads for the shower, while Connor orders breakfast for himself. Dylan's got team breakfast and then warm-ups, and he feels like he needs to get his head clear, focus on the game.

Connor's fooling around on his phone when Dylan gets out. Dylan pulls on clothes and gets his stuff, and then looks over to the bed. Connor glances up at him, hesitant. His mouth opens a little, and he licks his lips. “Heading out?" 

“Yeah," Dylan says, distantly. He looks a moment longer, and then gives in. He crosses the room and leans down to kiss Connor. 

Connor tips his chin right up and grabs the back of his neck, kissing back firmly. Dylan kisses him hard and pulls back just a little, with a smacking sound. 

“Good luck," Connor says.

Dylan feels like he floats down the hall to the elevator, giddy and ready for whatever's ahead. 

The world around him seems to get faster as the day goes on, like one of those videos that speeds up every time someone says a certain word. It's hard to focus on something silly like _practice_ — he wants to play for real, with the roar of the crowd and the faces of his opponents. Everything that's happened to him this week has built him up to this moment, and he wants to fight, wants to _win_.

Nobody on the team wants to head back to the hotel after lunch, he can tell. Everyone keeps looking back at the rink, longing. It's where they're going to meet their fate, their glory, and Dylan wants it right now.

His room is empty, of course, though Connor's clothes from yesterday are still here and his stuff is in the bathroom, which smells like his soap. There's something so different about coming back to a room where someone else is staying too. Dylan stops, breathing in deep. 

He doesn't want to think too much about all that now, but it feels like it's giving him strength, a solid base. Brinksy and Taylor have been his rocks all season, and he's grateful for them and how far they've come together. It's his team now. But he never really understood how important it was to have Connor in his life until he was gone.

He's not sure how it can work. He's not sure it won't end up the same as before, drifting apart on different continents, headed different directions. But he knows now that part of the problem was stretching himself too far, doing all the work, taking on all the hard stuff. They'll still have to talk, and it still might not pan out. But it's like something is healing over, a missing piece fitting back into place.

Dylan sleeps pretty well for his nap, all things considered. Feels good when he gets to the rink, loose and ready. Sinks a few in warmup. Talks to his boys, his coach, gets on the same page. They've got this. It's theirs.

And then they lose 4-3.

In a way, Dylan wishes it had been a blowout. Trading leads, tying it up, keeping hope alive for three periods, it wears on you. When the buzzer goes off and the Spits dogpile in the corner Dylan feels pain so acutely it's like he's been shot, bringing him to his knees.

He's not sure how he gets through the post-game stuff. The team is with him, all the way, and that counts for something. He gets the MVP and gives a quote he'll later regret, ungracious and ungrateful. It's still too raw, and everything is a dim, foggy blur. 

Seeing his parents hurts, because they're so proud of him and he wasn't good enough. His mom hugs him too long, Ryan too. He hates thinking of them going back to the hotel disappointed, almost more than for himself.

Later, everyone gathers in someone's hotel room. There's booze but Dylan doesn't drink anything. Connor isn't there. He hasn't looked at any of the messages on his phone, and he doesn't know if Connor sent one. Maybe he can face it tomorrow. He's trying not to think of that, though, because tonight is about the team.

Much, much later it's down to him and Brinksy and the other guys who are leaving after this year. Some of them have been crying, including him. It feels like a whole year gone to waste, no matter how far they got. Dylan hugs his guys one last time, and finally collects his stuff to go. It's so late it's closer to morning, and he wants to sleep forever.

He trudges down the hallway, under the dim lights. Everything feels irritating. The heavy misery of the rest of the night is lifting, leaving him raw underneath, with something close to rage building up. He wants to go punch the bag in the gym, yell his lungs hoarse, do something crazy. Shake this feeling of not being good enough that never goes away no matter what he does.

When he opens his hotel room door the lights are on, and Connor is sitting up on the bed, half-dozed off, waiting for him.

"Hey," Connor says, lifting his head and blinking sleepily. He looks like he's about to say more, but he hesitates.

"Hey," Dylan says, dropping his bag on the floor with a thud. He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.

He's glad to see Connor, but he's still feeling that restless irritation, like something is boiling just below the surface. He spits out toothpaste, scrubs at his face, pisses. When he finally comes back out Connor hasn't moved. 

"I waited up for you," Connor says, unnecessarily. "I thought — I figured you'd want to be with the guys on your own. They're your team."

Dylan nods, hollowly. Connor's sitting on the far side of the bed, under the covers and his phone on the nightstand. He wonders how long Connor's been here, waiting. He bends over to pull the sheets back on his side, then gets in next to Connor. 

He feels spun, caught between versions of themselves. The Connor he used to know would’ve been reaching for him, taking and giving comfort, but it would've been _their_ loss. He doesn't know what to expect from this new person; older, growing into himself, but somehow shy of Dylan. When Dylan took the initiative and called it off, that changed things between them. He's not sure they've really found a rhythm again yet.

Dylan stares straight forward, blankly, listening to Connor breathing through his mouth. It's loud in the silence. He's really, really tired. Finally Connor says, "Dylan. I'm sorry." 

He isn't even sure what Connor’s sorry about, if it's sympathy or an apology. He's not sure which he needs, or whether he wants either of them at all. It's late.

“You can fuck me, if you want," Connor says softly.

Dylan holds his breath. It feels like his vision goes red and black, sirens screaming in his head. All the unfocused rage from before rushes in, with something to aim at now.

This was — a thing, once. Not a big thing. Dylan just asked if Connor would ever do it, and Connor said no so fast, with such a look, that Dylan couldn't get it out of his head. _No way_? What the fuck was that supposed to mean? 

He brought it up again near the end of their last season in Erie, and it turned into this stupid, gut-wrenching fight. The kind that was really about something else, the draft coming up, but it got raw and angry. Neither of them ever apologized, and then it got weird. They didn't fuck again for a while, and when they did it felt tense, with all those unspoken things.

After that, the question was in the air every time they had sex. Which they didn't, a lot. The NHL season started and Dylan was back in Erie alone, and then Connor had stuff going on last summer and it just — lingered, unresolved. It's nowhere close to the reason they broke up, but it feels like it was underlying everything that got them there.

And now Connor's offering, like it's some consolation prize, like it's going to fix _anything_ at all.

Dylan turns and spits out, “No, I don't want to _fuck_ you right now."

He sees it hit Connor like a punch; shock, then hurt, then anger. Connor's mouth opens, and then he seems to get hold of himself. His jaw snaps shut. "Uh. OK. Fine."

Dylan huffs. "I mean, what the fuck. How could you — ” He stops and shakes his head. "What the _fuck_?”

Connor raises his hands. "I don't know, jesus, sorry. I thought you wanted — I thought we were — ”

“I don't know!" Dylan snaps. "Maybe we shouldn't have — ” He stops, as it hits him. "Oh god, _this morning_. Oh, _shit_.” 

He covers his face with one hand, feeling the chill of horror and sick guilt. The _one thing_ he's not supposed to do. 

Next to him, Connor snorts. "Wait, you don't think — come on, Dylan. It's a superstition. It’s not real.”

Dylan drops his hand and looks at Connor. "Well, maybe we shouldn't have been screwing around this week. Maybe it fucked with my head, I don't know! I just — _goddammit_.”

They stare at each other for a minute, hard. It feels like Dylan's in this weird, end of the line place, losing everything he had. He did what he could in the game tonight, but it wasn't enough, and somehow he has this wild impulse to ruin things here too, to drive Connor away again. Maybe he deserves that.

Connor closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. "Dylan."

"I don't know," Dylan says, shaking his head. He's surprised to find his voice is rough, on the verge of tears. He sighs and leans his head back, looking up at the ceiling. "I don't know."

He means everything. He doesn't know what happened tonight, or what's going on with his career. He doesn't know where it all went wrong with Connor, and he doesn't know how to fix it or even if they can. He's so tired, and it's so late.

“I’ve slept with people and still won games the next day, OK?” Connor says, gently. “I promise you, it's just a dumb superstition. It's not your fault.”

“People,” Dylan says. 

Connor pauses. “Just people. It doesn't matter.”

Dylan doesn't say anything.

“You slept with other people too, right?” Connor asks, and he sounds a little more uncertain. Like it'll bother him if the answer is _yes_.

Dylan shuts his eyes, taking a shaky breath, and nods. The tears finally spring up under his eyelids, and he sniffles, trying to hold them in. He feels Connor shift next to him, and then Connor's hand resting on his thigh, comfortable and reassuring. Connor leans into him, their shoulders pressing together.

"You were good tonight," he says, his breath warm against Dylan's neck.

“Whatever," Dylan croaks.

Connor squeezes Dylan's leg. "I know it fucking sucks, but it's just one game. You gotta forget it, move on.”

Dylan swallows, shaking his head. He's heard this, knows it, but it never feels like it's true.

There's a silence, Connor still resting against him. When Connor speaks again, he sounds rough too. “I'm sorry. I told you before, but I feel — really shitty. I've felt shitty all season. I know I fucked up."

Dylan swallows again, nodding slightly. The tears finally fall down his cheeks, and he reaches up to brush them away with the heel of his hand. He sniffles. "Yeah. I know you're sorry."

“I should've called right away when you got cut,” Connor says. 

“Yeah,” Dylan says, sniffling again. “What happened?”

Next to him, Connor just shakes his head a little. “I don't know. I didn't know what to say.” 

Dylan sighs. “You didn't really have to say anything. I just needed to hear that somebody had my back.”

“I did,” Connor says. “I guess — it’s not a good excuse, but stuff was getting tough for me too. It's fucking hard, playing in the NHL. Sorry,” he adds quickly. “I know you don't like hearing about that.”

He sounds regretful and embarrassed, and Dylan feels a prick of guilt for the first time. Maybe it wasn't fair to let Connor think that was why they broke up; maybe he fucked up some things too. 

"Uh, sorry for making you feel bad about getting the C, or whatever,” Dylan says, gruffly. “I'm so proud of you, Davo, seriously." He shakes his head. "It was never really about that."

"Really?" Connor asks, dubiously. “Because I thought…”

"Yeah." Dylan barks a laugh. "You're amazing, you know I've always thought so." He thinks for a moment. "I've never really been jealous of you. You always deserved it. It was just — hard to be left behind."

“I'm sorry,” Connor says again. “You've always been there for me. I'm sorry I couldn’t do that when you needed me.”

He leans into Dylan more, resting their heads together, and sighs. Dylan brings up his hand to cover Connor’s on his thigh. Their fingers twine, and they just sit together, in the late night quiet.

“Well, it was a pretty good season, other than tonight,” Dylan finally says, clearing his throat. "I guess I didn't have to be such a dick. We could have just — talked."

"Yeah," Connor says, elbowing him slightly. "That would've been nice." 

They fall silent again. Dylan is thinking over the last year, and to be honest, he's not sure it could've gone any other way. They both have so much going on, and they've worked all their lives for this. It's what brought them together from the start, caring more than anyone else on the team. You could see Connor's future like it was written in the stars, and Dylan wanted to be close to that. He just didn't know how hard it would be to stay there.

“If we try — ” Dylan says, and stops. His mouth is dry, and he licks his lips. “I wanna be with you, Davo. I miss being with you.”

“Me too,” Connor says softly. 

“Maybe we could both try harder?” Dylan asks. “I guess we’d have to like, talk about stuff more.” 

“Ugh,” Connor says, but it sounds like he's smiling, too.

The late hour is really starting to hit Dylan, along with the bone-deep letdown of the loss, and he feels a little punchy, losing focus as he sinks into Connor’s warmth. He clears his throat, trying to wake up.

“Hey, listen. I gotta work my ass off this summer. They want me in the weight room, using a skating coach, all that stuff. I gotta get serious." He tilts his head to look at Connor. "You gonna be around?"

"Yeah," Connor says, looking up. "You wanna train together?"

"I mean, if you don't have somewhere else to be," Dylan says. "Or like, your guys."

Connor tips his head back and forth, considering. "I'll make it work." His face looks set, intent. "It's worth it. You're worth it."

It feels like something melts inside Dylan, and the tears well up again, dumb ones this time, sentimental. It's not like Connor hasn't been saying those things to him all week, with his words and his body. It's not like Dylan hasn't felt it too. But the way Connor's looking at him now, it brings back everything from when they were together, all the comfort and giddiness and joy.

Dylan reaches over to cup Connor's face, a small smile growing at the corners of his mouth. He feels a warm glow now, suddenly wide awake again. It's going to be hard, because they'll have all the same old shitty problems, and probably new ones, too. He'll have to fight for this.

But he wants it more than anything, and he needs it too, like it's part of the foundation of his life. Connor here with him, looking at him like this. Needing him in the same way. Dylan’s figuring out how to give Connor that, without making it be all or nothing.

"Yeah, it's worth it," Dylan says, and leans in to kiss him.

Connor kisses back, soft, his hand warm on the back of Dylan's neck. It's not perfect, or easy, but right now it's everything Dylan wants, and everything he needs.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: [sophia-helix](http://sophia-helix.tumblr.com)


End file.
